The campervan jolts and flicks your morning stare back inside the festival vessel. You’re surrounded by an alchemical-crazed festival crew; the alternative culture, wrapped up in a space-shuttle with a haze of pre-emancipation. You don’t know what the time is. You don’t care. Time doesn’t matter now; you’re on your way to the Glade festival.
*
The night is awake. Beat-boom-beat-boom-beat-boom.
Spinning and spinning; round the lights of the blues, greens, yellows, reds and whites. Spinning round the sounds of drum n’ bass and break-beats, psy-trance and dub-step, funky house and a whole bursting cacophony of electronic dance delivery. Spinning round the smiles, stares, dances, dreams, gurns and lives; spinning and spinning until the Glade crashes together in single humming ambience.
Time suddenly slows. You’re watching in a hypnotic trance. Watching the ground. A web of green neon stripes, criss-crossing the tufts of grass, illuminating the points and edges. A mellow waterfall, ebbing and flowing, carefully tending your thoughts. Gently you run your foot over the waves in the hope you might touch it; in the hope it might wash over your clownish feet.
A searching light catches your eye; stares you down. It’s grabbed you and you’ve started wandering toward it. Beats from either side; squeezing you forwards. Bass running up your legs; keeping you moving. The sky all around; openings between clouds. Turning upwards, whilst piskies slink this way and that, weaving around you and you howl to the moon. Suddenly you’re surrounded by howls as the pack calls.
*
The night is old. Beat-boom-boom-beat-
boom-boom-beat.
You’ve forgotten any sort of jumper but luckily you met a nice pixie who’s offered you help. “Otherwise you’ll be frozen in your own sweat by the time you got back to the campsite.” She’d said.
She leads you like a lost child through the lights of liberty toward some sort of magical information tent. She’s easy to follow, covered head to foot in neon-glow-sticks and dancing to and fro between breakbeats and bounce. “Come and let Glade and I clothe you” she calls out. She looks like the lost psychedelic character from the film Tron, or a Timothy Leary pin-up girl.
Seconds later: “Free clothing for the dispossessed of warmth courtesy of the Glade information tent!” She waves a thick woolly jumper in front of your eyes. It glows slightly with an alchemical-warmth. Soon after, (hours maybe?) the music has stopped. It’s gone five. Glade giveth, Glade taketh away, Glade… knows you need to get some rest.
*
Three days later; somewhere between the Glade and home you wake up.
You’re back in the campervan; body rattling back and forth, brain rattling aimlessly round your head. All about, a plume of smoke hangs on the air. The heavy smell makes you gag slightly. You don’t care though; you’ve had an unbelievable time and you shut your eyes and listen to the music still happily syncopating on your ear drums.
Words by Rob Dickins
Illustrations by Tom Andrews
Fallyrag at the Festivals 2009: Extended versions of all the artwork and creative writing produced by all the Fallyrag team’s experiences of festivals in 2009 will be
Visit Tom’s Profile Page for contact details, website links and a summary of featured articles on Fallyrag.
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